radical grace.

I wish I could adequately put into words what the past few weeks have been like for me. They have been some of the most beautiful, refreshing weeks of my life. I'm not kidding.

Story after story, circumstance after circumstance, conversation after conversation... they just abound in God's faithfulness. His love. His grace.

Grace.

I've been thinking SO much about this word lately. Trying to figure out what this looks like. Grace for others, but also grace for myself.

And do you want to know the truth?

I don't practice what I preach.

Sure, I most certainly read the blog posts. I skim the articles. I pour over Scripture. I take in the words of truth and I breathe them deeply.

They speak of this thing, this radical grace. Grace for the murderer. Grace for the rapist, the corrupt world leader, the adulterer.

Who am I, if not a girl so completely covered in grace myself? Who am I, if not clean only (and I mean ONLY) because of Jesus?

I believe in Grace.

I've seen it.

I've felt it.

I've experienced it.

I've given it.

The abundant outpouring of undeserved worth. undeserved merit.

I speak words in voice and print of love- true, unconditional, perfect love- and how fast its power.

I deeply believe in love. and in grace.

But do you want to know the truth?

When I think about the fact that my birth father abandoned me and I once again feel the intensity of him choosing his own happiness over all else, all I want to do is make an imaginary phone call, after 20 years of silence, and lay into him about his selfishness. I don't usually do it. But sometimes I do.

When the story is told again- the story weaved with lies and accusations and tied together with familiar names, including my own- all I want to do is protect and defend and and run hither and yon protecting that name. I typically stay quiet, seething only to myself. But sometimes I don't.

When I sit across the coffee table from a friend and hear about the way men have treated her, how she's been hurt, how she's been used, all I really want to do is find those boys, slap them in the face a time or two, and make sure to send my dad right behind me with his own set of muscles. I don't actually do either, but I sure do want to.

When I hear that person encouraging spiritual bondage and calling it Jesus' way, taking God's very nature and heart in vain- my eyes turn red and every cell in my body seems to revolt. All I want to do is shout an alternate message from every rooftop through the voice of my own anger and hurt, shouting unheard truth into bleeding ears. I don't always. But I usually do.

I wonder sometimes. I wonder about the family of ones who were murdered. I wonder about the innocent victims of those rapists. I wonder about the children of the corrupt world leaders, and the wife who found another woman in her marriage bed. I wonder about them.

What does grace look like in their lives?

What about the ones who deal with the pain and scars of those acts every single day?

How do they view our declarations of radical grace toward the ones who tore apart their lives, when we can't even give the grumpy sales clerk or the awful driver a break?

How much undeserved grace to they give? How much do I give?

Where is that frayed line between personal boundaries and God's supernatural ability to love through flawed, imperfect people?

I don't think I'll ever know the answer to this while I'm still here on earth. But I would love to sit down and talk to Jesus about this in Heaven one day.

What does grace look like, God?

I can't tell you what it looks like, friends.

But I believe in it.

I believe in Grace.

I believe in radical Grace.

Love and grace to you,
Lyss